


Like Ghosts in the Snow

by skazka



Category: Tanz der Vampire - Steinman/Kunze
Genre: Dubious Consent, Introspection, M/M, Undeath, Yuletide 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/pseuds/skazka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was not as frightened as he was before, and that worried him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Ghosts in the Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiana606](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiana606/gifts).



Alfred found himself to be in a stone box.

_My Heavenly Father, I thank You, through Jesus Christ, Your beloved Son, that You kept me safe from all evil and danger last night. Save me, I pray, today as well, from every evil and sin, so that all I do and the way that I live will please you. I put myself in your care, body and soul and all that I have. Let Your holy Angels be with me, so that the evil enemy will not gain power over me. Amen._

Alfred did not know whether it was morning or night in the castle. Or even where he was, events had proceeded as in a dream – snow on his tongue and the smell of blood in his nose. And inside of a grave it wasn't as if he were capable of checking his watch... if he had a watch, which he did not. It had been pawned back in Bistritz. Regardless, he prayed from habit, and didn't think to have a new-found qualm. He would wait there in the undercroft until he was called for, and it hadn't been very long at all.

The Professor had taught him fairly well in terms of authorities and theories. If he had a florin for every dusty old book he'd had to pore over for any scrap of information he might not already know, or every theorem he'd memorized by heart like his first catechism... well, he wouldn't have holes in his shoes and more darning than wool in his gloves. And the practice, time and time again, between the sixth and seventh rib, a steady hand and a strong strike of the hammer – or ax, in a pinch. It would all come together nicely until he tried to imagine himself actually doing it. Would there be great gouts of blood? Would the unlucky fiend crumble to powder? Would the inside be rotten, under a pristine and alluring shell, like an inviting apple with a lurking soft spot? Blood might issue out in fountains, or might not; he had never _killed_ a vampire before, he wouldn't know! Would the creature hiss and thrash, perhaps wound him in the process? The Professor would only answer with more facts and cases: in Cologne an account of this had been published, while the authority Horst had stated an instance of this. The wheres and whys were not comforting. His hands and knees both shook.

. He couldn't imagine the actual Deed without feeling a little dizzy, not even in a nice warm inn, free from danger, with a mug of beer in his hand. Putting the monster to rest. The bones of the ribs would crack, they would yield under his hand, and the wooden stake would penetrate dead flesh, rend fibers and tear – no wonder his hands had shook so badly. And the innkeeper's wife, Sarah's mother, had refused to let them desecrate her husband that way – and look how well that had turned out! That squeamishness had been the end of all of them.

Always  there had been the assumption that he _could_ do it, regardless, that good would prevail despite his timidity. But it had been so exhilarating to be wicked, Sarah's hot, scarlet kiss in the snow, the sublime pain of new blood coursing through him. His skin itched with newness, with the longing for new sensations; his eyes ached at the brightness of it all like a veil had been tugged away. And it had been undeniably a sensual experience.

_Alfred's soul belongs to me._

They had started for Vienna in the dark, the red tracks in the snow behind them as plain as day. Like two children in the woods, limping doggedly in a random direction assigned to be "homeward" – no thought in their heads but one another's company, glutted and blind to anything but one another. It wasn't long until their host caught up with them. He had _rebuked_ her, not like a parent scolding a naughty child but like a wounded and vengeful beast, and Alfred had only cowered. Blind with fright and with new teeth in his mouth. Their trek had seemed impossibly slow going, but the return was nothing more than an eye-blink in his memory. No sights nor sounds but the snow. It had done something, shattered his sense of time.

Now Sarah had been welcomed back into His Excellence's icy bosom and he was left behind, to be dealt with. Disposed of, maybe. The ghastly hunchback was nowhere to be seen, with luck he was dead, and Alfred had no jailer, but he felt leaden, complacent in body even as his mind racked itself to pieces thinking of escape. Not through the snow but through this state of being, back to the other side -- it was not possible. There was only a one-way journey out of mortality and its neighboring undeath, driven like a steel nail.

Alfred wondered, dimly, if he could put a stake through himself. Or just wait until a more ruthless vampire killer came along, fall down on his knees and implore him to end it. More strangely, he did not even have the desire. He was not as frightened as he was before, and that worried him. It was a reasonable human thing, to be cautious; if he were not monstrously brazen enough to hold his own against one of these brutes, good. But his aches were gone, the little pains in his neck had healed, and the all-consuming hunger... well, Alfred had gone hungry before, and there had been plenty to drink between the two of them.

He shut his eyes in the dark and damp and felt around in his thoughts for a missing soul.

\---

It was an embarrassingly long time before Alfred realized he wasn't being _forced_ to wait in the dank and dark. Wherever the Count was, Sarah undoubtedly was as well, and the two were... too busy to bother with Alfred any more. If he wanted to escape, rally the forces of goodness and light in Vienna... or have a nice big meal (the latter seemed morbidly appealing) what could keep him from rallying his own senses in the fresh air?

Did he even require breath?

His eyes had adjusted unnaturally well to the complete absence of light. He could hear, also; the occasional scraping sound of rats on the move. He didn't even feel cold or stiff, after being shoved into a God-forsaken coffin. The heavy stone lids on the sarcophagi had barely moved when he'd first tried, only hours ago for all that it seemed like years. But his own yielded more easily, with the awful groan of rough hewn stone grating against stone. Ungodly demoniac strength, or some sort of trick mechanism? Either way it let him have a moment for his spirits to climb, an encouraging spot of hope. Now he was free, to roam as he would, provided he could avoid his hosts. And find his way through endless echoing hallways, and menacing portrait galleries, and innumerable medieval pitfalls. He brushed grave soil from his clothing.

How had he ended up with the Professor's scarf wound around his throat? Crusted blood flaked away when he touched the wool.

Never mind it.

At least he had not been deposited in the master bedroom, as it were, where Alfred had had his earlier mishap – it was in a forgotten corner, less evil-smelling and thick with cobwebs, and where the grave markers were made indistinct with age. After the maze of tunnels and several small staircases, after nearly tripping into a suspiciously fresh-looking pine coffin (he would not think about who _that_ contained or he'd start quaking again; the only thing worse than being alone in the dark was not being alone in the dark) he began to feel slightly more secure.

He had imagined he'd heard voices, once, and fled from their source, echoes following. A brick alcove presented itself as a hiding-place, and opened up on a narrow staircase. A secret passage – perhaps the place was honeycombed with them. Ordinarily that strait staircase would have been his last choice, with raw brick walls and an evil damp smell and uneven steps and no place to put his hands. But it seemed logical at the time, in the dark with fleeting impressions of other predators making him skittish, and the steps had simply kept climbing and climbing. Until at last at the end of it he was spilled out above ground level.

Narrow corridors and tapestried walls... and locked doors. The resinous smell of old wax,and moldering and ominous tapestries on the walls. Windowless and palpably silent. At the end of the hall there was another narrow staircase, only one open door, leading up, perhaps to a tower?  
Things had been so much simpler when all he had to do was follow the hunchback.. But some of these tapestries and stones had begun to look familiar. Had he been this way before? Had he been turned around somewhere? Had he been going around in circles for hours now, with only the light of a few liquefied candles in their stand to go by –

No, this was just the same patch of hallway that branched off of the library. And the bath. The sigh of relief was only momentary before he remembered who he'd met there. The house itself had turned itself around, tricked him into coming this way, into Herbert's corner of the castle, just to make him miserable. Alfred thought hostile thoughts about it for a few moments so he wouldn't _cry_ from frustration. Any moment now he'd hear that voice...

He halted at the doorway, and peered inside, out of morbid fascination.

The valise!

It had belonged to the Professor. Until they had... recovered it from the snow. In there were the tools for his possible salvation, the keys to freedom. But it meant going into the viper's – _bed_ room. About as effortless and inviting as traversing the Carpathian forest.

The Count's son was noticeably absent – he was not in the crypts, maybe off seeing their other guests back to their own temporary rests or bedeviling some other poor soul, thank God. There was an unmistakable stamp of his character on the room itself. He had needlessly neglected to snuff out the light before leaving.

The furnishings were dark wood, made even darker by age, and what floor space was not taken up by the bed was home to either trunks, books or various other ephemera. Perhaps trunks _of_ books, considering the sheer volume of those (pilfered from the grand library?) but some looked as if they hadn't been taken up in a hundred years. More surprising to him, given Herbert's prissy silky nightshirt and foppish manners, was the state of clutter. Like someone had given free rein to an adolescent boy whose tastes ran to the lamentably out of date, and that boy had grown into a man and simply not bothered to dispose of anything. Fencing swords and stargazing equipment. There were even books on the monstrous postered bed, and what looked suspiciously like a commonplace book or a diary at the writing desk. Uncomfortably personal artifacts.

Perched on top of one of these stacks was the goal-object, the Professor's black traveling bag which looked invitingly familiar. He picked his way through the rather hazardous thicket of articles on the floor (plush hassocks and more books, the junk of centuries) and pointedly avoided gazing at the bed, as if this were a charm for making sure he'd never end up in it. His olfactory senses had sharpened as well and the mixture of book-dust and overpowering perfume, powdery rust choked under rose and gardenia, turned his stomach. _Be bold, Alfred!_

If he had these, the accoutrements of his trade, he would never be lost again; he could defend himself! It wouldn't be much – God knows what would be left to use in his present state – but with stake and hammer in hand he need never become like the others, completely surrendered to his base nature. And now if ever he could be said to have graduated from the humble position of vampire hunter's _assistant_. And a vampire, to boot. All the better, maybe! Taking a thief to catch a thief, and all that.

He reached to undo the clasp with clumsy, cold fingers. A little pop, as the latch opened.

The stakes were gone. As well as the hammer, if he'd once entertained the thought that there might be a handy piece of kindling somewhere. Stupid, so _stupid_. His heart sank, and then...

 

"Alfred, dear-heart."

That dreadful singsong voice. Alfred froze, his hands still thrust deep into the lining of the bag.

With fright prickling the back of his neck, he rummaged for a pocket. Not the handy places that had once held stakes (they were _gone_ , he felt naked and vulnerable) but seeking with his fingertips for smaller things, round as pebbles.

It was at very _least_ worth a shot. He turned and there stood the Count's son, sleek in silken breeches, smirking. Alfred found his own lip curling, not in a sneer but an animal snarl of raw new instinct. The beds of his teeth ached.

"What on earth could you possibly want in there, _mon cheri_?"

"Just give me a moment--" For the love of God. Alfred found his voice nearly cracking like a schoolboy's, but nevertheless he steeled himself – and --

 

"Ha!" Alfred could not contain his triumph in the moment, and the millet scattered. (Oh, he _was_ bold now.)

The vampire made a face, his grimace showing unconcealed white points of teeth.

"What the devil was that for? You threw _grain_ at me!"

He stalked around the spilled seeds peevishly, and seemed entirely undeterred. Alfred stammered.

"Don't you want to count them?"

"No, do you? Give me that, you stupid boy --"

And he seized the bag from Alfred's hands, turning it over and giving its side a brisk thump. The last of the seeds made an appearance, but unfortunately so did the rest of the bag's contents. Homely things. Heavily darned socks. A traveling Bible. A few coins. The Professor's spare spectacles wrapped in a handkerchief. The Professor's notebook. Where was the cross? Where was the garlic? Not even the blossoms – no doubt that would have repulsed him now, even if they'd had it, noxious beyond bearing. The Dutchman Van Helsing had achieved some success with the Blessed Eucharist, wrapped in a napkin and put to use against the forces of evil, but theirs had shattered beyond use before they'd even crossed the woods; only crumbs were left.

"Now look, you've made even more of a mess," Herbert said, too blithe for his demands to seem ridiculous. "Pick it up."  
Alfred scrambled to scoop up the contents, feeling himself flush at their very banality, and jerked back with stinging fingers at a pain sharp as a thorn.

Blazoned on the book's leather cover was a small gilt cross. He stared at it, slightly aghast, for a long moment. It hadn't just confronted him with the deep abiding knowledge of his own utmost eternal damnation, it had _hurt_ like a needle or a piece of glass.

He stared at his hands, feeling his throat tighten with an unvoiced cry. This was not entirely unexpected, but almost too cruel to bear.

"Fine, you caught me. Should I go back to the cellars, or – "

"Oh, papa just wanted you out of the way. You'll be staying with me, not down in the cellars with the rats and the revenants."

He patted the cleared place beside him on the bed. Alfred laughed nervously.

"I'm only joking. There's hardly any rats." Herbert grinned. "Come, sit. Let's get you sorted out."

\---

There were more carvings on the headboard, like the guest bed had been. Not snakes and skulls, grotesques of unknown beasts at play, but flowers, vines, things that looked almost like faces in the wood. No wonder, Alfred decided irritably, that his dreams had been so monster-riddled the other night; the real terror had the only pleasant bed. There was even a feather bed, and the wretch didn't even sleep in here, he'd bet anything. Softer than anywhere Alfred had ever chanced to lay his head, but a bed of sin nonetheless. The books had been brushed away (onto the floor, mostly) but a rectangular lump under the covers that was jabbing him in the leg indicated they weren't entirely absent.

Herbert began unwinding the scarf from his throat; Alfred stiffened.

"Where's Sarah?"

"Oh, she could be _anywhere_ ," he said airily. "Was it her you were looking for?"  
Alfred nodded, jaw tight.

"Then why were you in here?"

"Stop that!"

Herbert's thin white hands had no compunctions about moving on to try stripping him of his coat, not after first picking apart the knot of his tie with those long sharp fingernails. Alfred was frozen, shoulders rigid, feeling like a child being unwrapped from its swaddling clothes.

"I'm only helping, Alfred, your poor coat's soaked through."

(It was, from the snow, and slightly redder than usual in places. That pain pricked in his gum-beds at the smell of it, but Herbert seemed to pay it no notice, handling the cloth as he tugged it free like a dirty rag. That was a good coat! It had a lot of use left in it, and looked nothing like the outdated things the Krolock family bloodline seemed to favor. Perhaps those trunks were filled with clothes, though none of them were about to be offered to sorry assistants.)

"I can undress myself, you know!"

"Really?" What a delightful lark, taking someone's clothes off without their permission. He looked thoroughly pleased with himself, pale hair swinging.

"I’m not going to catch a chill, stop trying to--”

"To touch you? You'll get used to it in good time. We're going to be fast friends, you know," Herbert said silkily, stroking his cheek with the back of a hand. An unwanted thrill chased down his spine at the touch.

Who would blame him? The nagging memory of his dream kept coming back to him, more vivid than all the last nights' events – stabs of light dispersing the darkness and monstrous faces, monstrous bodies. Sarah looking immaculate, perfect, and Herbert tranquilly leading her to slaughter. And then it had turned to a nightmare. Sarah wrenched away from him, the chase, catching her and having her torn from his arms and then being seized himself... the intrusive male presence of their host. The fear of being subsumed to low desires, of being snatched and eaten up like a disobedient child. All of that had weighed on him as he slept.

The worst had already happened. Sarah had fled him willingly, _she_ had seized him and he had liked it, they had satisfied their basest desires in the snow. What was the _point_ any more, in preserving his virtue? In defending it tooth and nail? There was little of his virtue to be salvaged, and the veil of fear had been torn in two--

In a whisper of silk, Herbert was to the left of him, sitting on his stockinged heels. “Aren’t you going to protest?” he said, his drawl holding a bitter edge. Alfred realized he had been gritting his teeth, his throat tight with new despair.

A heavy pause. Alfred shook his head.

"Good. I might be-- strange company, at first--" He had expected Herbert to gloat over snaring him, smirk and paw at him. The vampire's face was a mask of odd grief, his smile faltering. "But you'll get used to it, won't you?"  
His hands crept to tug down Alfred's braces, to unbutton his collar.

How old was he? How long had he been like this, like a gaunt white spider luring gossamer flies into his web -- was he the Count's son at all? Herbert took his compliance as an encouragement and pushed him back against the pillow. His manner was not particularly feminine; he had not shied away from force when they first met. He had manipulated Alfred's body like a rag doll, _groped_ him, crushed him against himself clumsily like he had no idea any longer how mortal bodies worked, or how not to break them.

His kisses were urgent. On Alfred's mouth, his lips, his chin, his cheek; pressed fervently to his jaw, with the promise of teeth behind his lips. Expecting him to flee, to pull back and dart away or dissolve into elemental vapor. Alfred didn't even think to evade his caresses, feeling hot with shame but pleasantly overwhelmed – it was like being licked by little flames, that warmed but did not consume. Pleasant was the word for it; he didn't have to approve of it to enjoy it, did he? It was his body's fault, for being so different now, hungry for new touch. It didn't even matter that it was a boy's touch, they were on equal footing now, both beasts.

When other territory had been exhausted he slipped Alfred's shirt off of his shoulder, burying his face where neck and shoulder joined. The pleasant complacency vanished-- Alfred arched rigid in anticipation of pain, quite sure he was going to be bitten. His pulse had quickened from a standstill to an urgent pounding he could now _feel_ instead of hearing it in his ears.

"Not so tense, pet, I only want to kiss you – "

Herbert was leaning over him, with a solicitous doe-eyed look, so utterly pleased with himself that Alfred might have struck him across the face.

Alfred pushed him back, hard, summoning up as much righteous indignation as he could. Alfred-the-mild-vampire-hunter's-assistant could never have managed the venom in his voice.  
"Don't you _ever_ \--"  
They were his words, but the voice wasn't his own, hoarse and angry. He caught his wrist and twisted it back, hard, eliciting an indignant yelp of protest. And he did something beastly, horrible. Rather than striking him, he kissed him, with no particular delicacy or tenderness. Teeth clacked in the clumsy crush of lips. Bruise-hard, sharp and red --

The clinch broke. Alfred was speechless, but he hadn't blushed. With bitterness on their tongues, feeling nothing – Alfred felt nothing for him that time and did it anyway, it was a success. It was liberating. Herbert recoiled as soon as he was able, his faintly blue-tinged lips slack. His features twisted with displeasure.

"What the devil was that for?" ( A narrow sliver of white chest was exposed by Herbert's opened shirt, decorated with the pink and white ring of a blanched scar. Why on earth this had caught Alfred's eye, he did not know.) "If you're not going to behave, I'll go get Vati. See how you like _his_ kisses."

His warning tone made Alfred's skin crawl. _Both_ of the Krolocks– even if it were only an idle threat. The Count already had his hooks in, nagging fears and doubts, and he had Sarah, body and soul. His will would cloud Alfred's mind and override him, and there would be no recovery.

Better to belong to his son. To entertain the whims of a perverse little viper, where it would be safe.

"I'm s-- I –" Almost aghast at himself, Alfred gestured wordlessly at his own throat, where Sarah's scarlet kiss had been laid. "I don't – Don't bite me, please."

In a moment his delicate-boned face was unreadable again. "I wasn't even going to, darling. You make me feel like I'm making love to a corpse."

"… making love?"

"Aren't we going to?"

Alfred bit his lip and shifted on the over-plush surface.

"Er – we're barely acquainted, Herbert." He grew more flustered with his feeble fury gone out of him. (What had driven him to use his name?) "And I haven't – done this before." Why on earth did he feel bashful? As if it were clearly _his_ fault for not liking being wrestled around and groped! For not taking to unnatural vices like a duck to water.

"It's all right, I'll teach you how," Herbert said, back to careless flirtation in his manner. As if this were the height of generosity. Alfred half-expected a sly cut about how it was hard to stay mad at him very long, but he just smiled. Genuinely _happy_. Alfred shot him a gloomy look.

"How two men –? I didn't grow up in a monastery. I have some idea."

Herbert took his right hand and brought it to his lips. The burn from the cross still ached, like a tiny scald.

"Good."

**Author's Note:**

> Major thanks to the regulars on the #yuletide IRC channel and happy holidays!


End file.
